


Halloween Every Full Moon

by jettiebettie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Pack Feels, Stilinski Family Feels, drabble length, vampire!Stiles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jettiebettie/pseuds/jettiebettie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is sure, in some other universe where shit like this is funny, he and Stiles would be sharing knowing, reminiscent looks after the drifter literally rips Stiles’ throat out. With his teeth. Right before exploding into flames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not An Abominable Snowman

Derek is sure, in some other universe where shit like this is funny, he and Stiles would be sharing knowing, reminiscent looks after the drifter literally rips Stiles’ throat out. With his teeth. Right before exploding into flames.

As it is, Derek’s just trying hard not to panic as he covers the gaping wound as best he can, blood pouring over his fingers and Stiles choking beneath his hand. There’s so much fear in his eyes, tears slipping down the side of his face as he tries in vain to catch his breath. Derek wonders if he’s only swallowing mouthfuls of blood instead.

But Stiles is trying, he’s trying so hard. Derek can feel it in the teenager’s weakening grip around his wrist, can hear it in the fast, stuttering beats of his heart. Stiles is fighting to stay alive. But he can’t breathe properly and there’s so much blood, just _so much_. Derek almost grips his neck harder when he feels the life fade from him, as if sheer force could keep Stiles struggling to breathe, keep his heart from stopping.

But it does, slowly, and the blank, hollow stare of Stiles eyes almost looks peaceful. It doesn’t stop Derek’s eyes from watering or the howl that rips from his throat and echos through the trees.

-

He steps aside for those more important, for Scott and for the Sheriff. Scott collapses to his knees, a sob tearing from him as he screams and claws the ground. The stench of his agony cuts through the coppery scent permeating the area, if just for a moment.

The Sheriff, well.

The Sheriff picks his son up into his arms, ignoring the blood that’s soaking into his clothes as he tries to shake Stiles awake, tries to get him to open the eyes Derek palmed shut, _please Stiles, Mieczysław, please just look at me_!

It takes a long time before they’re able to pull him away, before Melissa and Deaton come and talk to him in mournfully soft tones and false reassurances in order to get him to let go of his boy. The blood has gone tacky and his hands stick to Stiles’ clothes, almost as if Stiles doesn’t want to be let go either.

But he is, and soon his body is placed in the back of Deaton’s car.

The Sheriff’s pleas and sobs have quieted, leaving the man to look as hollow as his son had. Melissa holds him, runs her hands down his back in soothing motions and tells him he staying at the McCalls’ that night, that he shouldn’t be alone.

At this, Derek feels Scott grip his elbow. He turns to him, the young man’s face wet with tear tracks and eyes full of loss. He pulls Derek toward the cars and away from blood pool and the pile of the drifter’s ashes that Deaton is already examining.

"I need you to help me with something," Scott says in a hoarse voice when they’re a few yards away. Derek looks back to the Sheriff, wanting to say something to the man. To tell him he’s sorry he couldn’t have done anything more, sorry that he was the one Stiles died clutching to.

But for the better, he decides against it and follows Scott.

-

They find themselves at the Stilinski house, with the windows dark and no sounds from within. Derek is about to ask which window they should go through, but Scott just pulls out his keys, hand trembling as he shakes loose the right one and opens the front door.

The house is quieter than Derek has ever felt it. There’s no soft shift of papers at the dining room table or furious typing upstairs, no low hum of a television set to whatever baseball game happens to be on or printer set to spit out page after page of information.

Derek doesn’t know what they’re doing here, but Scott is already going into the kitchen and pulling the barely filled garbage bag out of the trash can, setting the bag aside and holding the can out to Derek. Derek takes it by the rim with his still blood caked hands with nothing more than a confused frown. Scott gestures vaguely around the house.

"The Sheriff has alcohol stashed all over this place. We need to get rid of it all before he-" Scott stops himself, swallowing and taking a deep breath, eyes tearing up again. "We just need to get rid of it. Here first and then we’ll check the station."

Derek nods, knowing that Scott didn’t need his help for something like this. He wonders if Scott, too, simply didn’t want to be alone.

He’s surprised by how many bottles they find tucked away here and there; some almost empty, some unopened, some that have collected dust along with old photographs of a woman Derek’s never met but knows with just one look at her big brown eyes.

The trash can gets heavy enough that Derek starts to worry about the integrity of the plastic when Scott comes out of the Sheriff’s bedroom with one last bottle and they make their way to the kitchen sink. They haven’t said a word to each other since they started and they don’t now as they open bottles and tip them over, the sharp scented amber liquid circling the drain.

Derek understands though; he’s seen how hard Scott has tried not to look at pictures on the wall or at familiar areas of the house. He’s doing his best to stay composed and on task when everything inside of him is screaming. Derek knows the feeling well enough, knows his was strong enough to move him and his sister across the country. Scott is stronger than Derek was then, but even so Derek knows he’s going to need time - a lot of time - before this pain fades to a dull ache. He just wishes there was something more he could-

"Did you get the one from his desk drawer?"

Derek and Scott freeze as alcohol continues to pour out of their respective bottles, their heads turning to the hallway of the dining room.

Stiles stands there, like some extra out of a horror movie, skin pale and clothes still covered in his own blood. Besides the rough, hoarse words, there is no other sound coming from him, no heartbeat, no respiration beyond what he needed to speak. Derek doesn’t take his eyes off of him, but he sees Scott slowly lift one of the smaller bottles from the trash can in his periphery.

"Oh," Stiles croaks out like a death rattle. "Good."

He pitches forward then, and Scott drops the bottles he was holding, letting them shatter to the ground as he rushes forward to catch his friend’s body. Derek lets his own bottle clatter into the sink as he runs to them, pulling Scott back by his shoulder, even as Scott lets Stiles slouch against him. Scott throws him a look, but Derek shakes his head.

"Something’s not right," he says, and that’s obvious. Stiles is dead, Derek can sense it, knows Scott can too. But Scott just holds Stiles closer, ignoring the warnings his instincts are throwing at him. His cell phone starts ringing, and Derek can guess that it’s from a panicked Deaton. Scott ignores that too, letting it ring until it goes to voicemail.

"Stiles," he says, gripping his friend by the shoulders and pushing him up. Stiles moves with him, but he’s sluggish and more uncoordinated than usual. He looks at Scott and then glances up at Derek.

"He’s right, Scott," he says, looking down at himself. "Something’s wrong with me." He takes a deep breath again, in preparation of saying something else, but he stops, head turning to look at Derek’s hands.

Lightning fast, Stiles throws Scott to the side with unreal strength, lunging at Derek, tackling and straddling him to the floor. Derek is winded for all of a second, but that’s all Stiles needs to get his mouth onto blood covered hands. The feel of Stiles’ tongue curling around his fingers is enough to derail any immediate thoughts he has of throwing the kid off. But the sudden, inappropriate sting of arousal is washed away cold when Derek sees a flash of fangs and eerily clouded eyes.

He tries to pull his hand away, but Stiles hisses unnaturally at him, pushing him further into the tile of the kitchen as he bares his sharp teeth against the column of Derek’s neck. A wet slide of tongue against his jugular is blessedly cut short when Stiles is suddenly ripped from him and tossed across the kitchen floor. Scott places himself between them, hands held out to the both in a gesture of peacekeeping.

"Stiles!" he yells, the rumble of his alpha influence underlining his voice. Immediately Stiles eyes become clear again, vibrant brown replacing the white film of something… _other_. Stiles looks between them several times, fear evident in his face.

"I’m-I’m sorry," he stammers to them both. "I didn’t mean to- I didn’t-"

Stiles is dead, but Derek is pretty sure he’s having a panic attack nonetheless.

Despite what just happened, Scott approaches him without hesitation, speaking to his friend softly even as Stiles curls in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest. Scott has handled this more times than Derek, so Derek hangs back and tries not to complicate the process of bringing Stiles down. Instead, he digs out his own phone and calls Deaton.

Because Stiles is dead, and they need to know where to go from here.


	2. The Scientific Process

Watching Stiles lay out in the sun isn’t how Scott planned to spend his day off from the clinic, but he’s oddly okay with it, especially when he considers all the times he and Stiles spent trying to figure out his newly acquired supernatural skill set.

He has to laugh though, because of course the only time Stiles willing sunbathes is when he’s a vampire. It sounds like the contrary attitude he would take to things that irritate him. Stiles blearily looks up at him from the flat of his back, eyes squinted so hard Scott wonders if he can actually see anything.

"I’m sorry, what about this is funny?" he asks testily, his speech slow and kind of slurred. He started getting really tired about ten minutes in and now, at the thirty minute mark, he’s sprawled out pathetically on the solid rock of the small outcropping that overlooks a stream. They’ve already tried the thing with running water, which really just came down to Scott pushing Stiles into the shallow edges and laughing when his friend landed on his ass and glared up at him through wet bangs.

"I don’t know," Scott says, checking to see if his socks have dried. "I was just thinking about how you have an excuse not to go to your cousin’s wedding now." Stiles takes a deep breath and groans for a good ten seconds. It’s still kind of weird, how Stiles only has to breathe now to talk.

"Who has an outdoor wedding in the middle of August? We’re not even directly related to her," Stiles whines, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

"Chill out, Bela Lugosi," Scott says. Stiles takes a reluctant reprieve from his sulking to weakly give Scott the high-five he deserves. The simple action seems to take a lot out of him. "How do you feel?"

"Like I’m gonna be sick," Stiles says, turning to rest on his side. He's certainly looking green around the gills enough for that to be true, and Scott is really confused at how this whole undeadness thing works, even though Deaton has tried to explain.

"Well, look at it this way," Scott tries. "Forty-five minutes and being sick is better than spontaneously combusting. If you were full on Dracula, things would be a lot worse." Stiles doesn’t look comforted by that fact.

It seems the terms of The Princess Bride are relevant to Stiles right now. It’s true that he's mostly dead, but mostly dead is _slightly alive_. Deaton tried to be as clear about it as possible, about how the turning process isn’t complete until the new vampire drains its first human. The way he made it sound, Stiles is stuck in some metamorphosis stage, definitely not human anymore, but not wholly a bloodsucker of the night either.

As such, Deaton isn’t really sure what rules apply. Stiles still has a reflection and signs of faith don’t repel him. He’s not in any danger of catching fire just by walking out of his front door in the middle of the day, and it seems like he and Scott will still be able to go swimming in the preserve.

They’re also pretty sure it mean he gets none of the cool stuff, like melting into the shadows or sexy hypnotism. Stiles is probably most upset about not having the sexy hypnotism.

"Derek’s finally here," Stiles mumbles, and Scott blinks. Sure enough, when Scott focuses his hearing, he can make out the sounds of Derek’s measured steps through the trees.

"Is this really a good idea?" Derek asks as he approaches them.

"No," Stiles groans out pitifully. Scott frowns and glances at his watch.

"We’re at an hour. How do you feel?" he asks.

"Like I’m dying all over again," Stiles says. It makes Scott and Derek freeze and watch him cautiously. "Oh my god, I’m _kidding_. Kind of. Not- not really. Can you guys roll me into the shade now?”

Scott and Derek spring into action, Scott bending down to pick his friend up and Derek stripping off his jacket, throwing it over Stiles’ head. With some work, they manage to get Stiles to piggy back on Derek. Scott runs ahead of him to get the Jeep open and make room for Derek to slide Stiles in.

But now Stiles is unconscious. At least, Scott _thinks_ he's unconscious. His friend has no pulse or respiration now, it’s really kind of hard to tell. Scott looks to Derek helplessly, but Derek shrugs because why would he know an better than Scott? They’re all still trying to figure this out. But just as Scott is about to panic and start slapping Stiles’ face, Derek climbs into the back with them. It’s seriously cramped, but Scott does his best to give the man room.

"Open his mouth," Derek says, rolling up one of his sleeves. Scott nods, taking Stiles’ jaw in his hand. Derek extends the claws of his left hand, positioning his right over Stiles’ mouth. Scott winces when Derek digs into his own wrist, holding the wound open to let it bleed onto Stiles' tongue.

Almost immediately, Stiles eyes fly open, clouded with that same eerie white as he breaks Scott’s hold on his head and sits up quickly, grabbing Derek’s wrist and sinking his teeth in. Scott goes to drag Stiles back down onto the seat, but Derek stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"It’s fine," he says with a tight voice. For Derek maybe, Scott thinks, but Stiles is going to town on Derek’s wrist and the sounds he’s making are nothing short of animalistic. The scent of blood is suffocating in the tight space of the back of the Jeep, and Scott has to look away and at Derek. The man is paling quickly and looks like he’s in pain, but it doesn’t seem as if he has any intention of stopping Stiles anytime soon.

So Scott does it for him.

"Stiles, calm down," he says firmly, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him back.

Stiles makes a low warning sound in the back of his throat before it cuts off suddenly. Stiles blinks and his eyes return to normal, his iron grip on Derek’s arm opening as pushes himself back and against the metal of the Jeep’s frame. He brings a hand up to his mouth, wiping away the excess blood there and wincing. While his condition seems a lot better, there being an actual flush to his face, Stiles himself still looks like he’s about to throw up.

"Okay," Scott says, trying not to sound shaken up. "So. About an hour of direct sunlight. I’d say that’s a victory for science, yeah?"

Stiles and Derek say nothing, both needing a moment of recovery. Scott nods awkwardly.

"Yay, science."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have too many headcanons for this AU to not write more for it, so.
> 
> This won't have any distinguishable, ongoing plot. It's going to be a series of moments about Stiles learning and coming to terms with what he is now. Next chapter will focus on Stiles and his dad. And don't worry, I plan to touch on a lot of things: needing to be invited into private residences, whether or not Stiles can stay in this between state, if werewolf blood is a viable substitute, etc. I'll basically continue until I run out of headcanons.
> 
> (Did you know that you can find me on tumblr at jettiebettie.tumblr.com? It's true.)


	3. Managing Expectations

As far as Derek knows, Stiles hasn’t fed in a while.

He’s been on the evasive after the last time. He hasn’t really been in a room alone with Derek ever since the incident in the Jeep, and Derek is all for saying _I told you so_ in response to Stiles and Scott’s stupidity. How else did they think an experiment like that would end? At any rate, it seems to have rattled Stiles quite a bit, shame and fear rolling off of him in waves every time he looks at Derek.

It’s more than a little distressing, because his avoidance means he hasn’t fed in a couple of days.

Deaton has tried more than once to assure him that consuming werewolf blood won’t complete the transformation, but Stiles wouldn’t be Stiles if he wasn’t a stubborn pain in the ass.

_"Can’t I just suck a squirrel or something?"_

_"No, I’m afraid not. Your body requires something higher on the food chain than that."_

_"That’s stupid. Supernatural rules are stupid. What if I raid a blood bank?"_

_"Stiles, I know this is a difficult time for you, but you need to accept the reality of your situation. You need fresh blood. Human blood is out of the question if you insist on remaining the way you are, but the blood of a shapeshifter will sustain you just fine."_

_"… Fine, whatever."_

Whatever. Whatever meaning that Stiles chose to ignore his hunger for as long as possible. And for as long as possible turns out to be three days.

Derek’s only a little surprised when he opens the door to his loft and finds the picture of resigned misery standing in front of him. Without a word, he steps aside for Stiles to come in. The teenager glares at the ground for a moment before shaking his head and stepping inside. His face is drawn and pale, arms wrap around himself as his shakes minutely. Derek takes it all in as he slides the door shut.

"How are you feeling?" he asks. Stiles rolls his eyes and gives him a humorless smile.

"Peachy. Spent the morning biting into my arm to keep from eating my dad while he got ready for work. Fun times. I don’t recommend it."

Derek glances down to Stiles arms, taking notice of the darkened patch on one of the sleeves. He can smell the blood now, an old and subdued scent. Looking back up to Stiles’ face, he does his best to appear impressed.

"You exercised control. That’s good," he says. Stiles’ expression tells him he’s less than believable.

"Right. _Control_.”

"You came here, didn’t you? You kept yourself from hurting anyone. Yes, Stiles, that’s what control _is,_ " Derek says, walking toward his kitchen. He hears Stiles following him by the sound of his clothes shifting. It’s odd, how Stiles’ presence seems to have suddenly stopped cutting out a large chunk of space for itself that’s impossible to ignore. Now it’s like he unconsciously fades into the stillness of everything around him. Derek has learned to appreciate all the sounds Stiles now makes intentionally; breathing to speak, tapping his foot or his fingers in a facsimile of a heartbeat, letting his footsteps fall harder than necessary. It’s as if Stiles is rebelling against the new quietness of his nature.

Everyone appreciates it.

No one tells him so.

Derek goes about getting a mug and pulling out a paring knife. He fills it up with his back toward Stiles, knowing that, vampire now or not, Stiles is still queasy about watching people bleed. As soon as he opens a vein, he hears a strangled sound behind him.

"What are you _doing_?”

Derek looks over his shoulder, confused. Stiles has his sleeve over his nose, his skin miraculously breaking out into a light sheen of sweat, making him look even more ill. But his eyes are even hungrier now, his shaking worse than before.

"It’s what you need," Derek says, turning back around to make sure he was still bleeding over the mug.

"That’s not why I’m came here!" Stiles yells, voice strained and bordering on panicked. Derek quickly sets down the knife and allows his wrist to heal as he approaches Stiles in just a few quick strides.

"Stiles, what are you talking about?" he asks, placing firm hands on Stiles’ shoulders in an attempt to calm him.

"You were just supposed to _talk me down_ , not enable me! What’s wrong with you?!”

One of his hands grabs Derek by the forearm with a grip that makes Derek’s bone creak. Wincing, Derek tries to keep his instincts in check, refraining from throwing Stiles off. Instead, he lets a hand move to the back of Stiles’ head, gently taking hold of his hair and forcing Stiles to look directly at him.

"I’m not enabling you, Stiles. This is what you need to… survive," Derek says, _to live_ still on the tip of his tongue. “This isn’t some addiction you have to fight.”

"It feels like one."

He’s not sure what about that statement gives him pause; the implication behind it or the worryingly small voice with which Stiles says it.

Slowly, Derek lets go of his hold and Stiles does the same. The kid stares at the ground guiltily and wraps his overshirt tighter around himself. Instead of pressing, Derek walks back to the counter to grab the mug. The sides of it are still warm, so he hopes it still counts as “fresh” by whatever Higher Power dictates that sort of thing. He hands it out to Stiles, but Stiles just stares at it, expression equal parts disgust and longing. Derek doesn’t yield though, keeping the mug within reaching distance. Stiles glares at him, but eventually he swallows and takes hold of it.

"I hate you so much," Stiles says before brings the mug to his lips and tosses his head back.

It’s a bit unsettling, to be honest, but Derek refuses to look away, even as Stiles’ recently subdued demeanor shifts into something unnatural and predatory. His mouth goes dry when Stiles begins licking up the residual smears of blood clinging to the ceramic, running his tongue against the inside in long stripes. Derek reaches out to take the mug from Stiles’ increasingly firm hold, but Stiles pulls it back with a low warning hiss, eyes clouded white and fangs catching over the rim when he bites the mug. Derek can’t help the amused snort, because even with the threatening air around him, Stiles still manages to look ridiculous.

Stiles blinks in rapid secession, eyes returning to normal. He glances down at the mug and slowly retracts his fangs. Obviously embarrassed, he runs his tongue across his teeth and hands the mug back stiffly. Derek takes it without saying anything about it, pleased enough to see color returning to Stiles’ face, borrowed warmth giving his skin the illusion of life. He drops the mug into the sink and leans against the counter, crossing his arms leisurely.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks. He knows his tone leaves little room to argue, but it’s Stiles, so he tries anyway.

"My new liquid diet? No, not really."

"Not that. We’ll work on that. I meant… I meant about what you said before," Derek says. Stiles stares at him, as if trying to decide if he’s serious or not. Derek doesn’t move, just lets Stiles fight with himself before he eventually gives up and leans against the wall.

"It’s kind of like an Adderall withdrawal," Stiles says, and then he makes a face as if to say that’s not quite right. "It _reminds_ me of an Adderall withdrawal. I just- I don’t know. I don’t feel right… if I wait too long.”

Derek says nothing, and Stiles seems to realize he’s expecting more.

"I overdosed on it once," he says, looking down at his hands. He rolls up one sleeve and examines his arm. It’s free of any wounds, but Derek knows that wasn’t true just a few minutes ago. "It was an accident, not long after my mom died. My dad, he uh. He sort of threw himself into his job, you know? He didn’t really take what happened to her well. I guess neither of us did, but it really… It really weighed down on him. And you know, funeral arrangements are one thing, putting up with a kid who can’t sit still for more than five minutes is another. He just- I don’t know- needed to be away from it for a while and started working a lot more, stopped talking like he used to. Drank a little more. I was latch-key kid for a while there."

Derek knows he looks confused, because that doesn’t sound like the Sheriff he’s met.

"I tried to stay out of the way, but after a few months like that, I really started to miss spending time with him. The panic attacks didn’t really help either. I just… wanted to watch a game with him or go to the park, anything. So I asked him one day if we could do that. He actually said yes."

Stiles rolls his sleeve back down and sets his mouth in a grim line.

"He was going to take me out to play catch after he got off work. I remember being really excited about it. I got home after school, did all my chores, finished all my homework, got out my glove, and waited on the couch. I think I’d taken my upper daily limit just to get everything done on time. Then, you know, the time for him to get off work came and went and he still wasn’t there. And I started to get tired, right, so I took another pill to make sure I’d be ready when he did finally show up. But a little while longer, he still wasn’t home, and it was getting really late so I took a couple more."

Stiles shifts his weight and stares a little harder at this floor between them.

"I don’t really remember what happened after that, but at some point Scott and his mom came by to pick me up for school like they'd been doing for months and found me on the kitchen floor. Went to the hospital and had my stomach pumped. Turns out my dad had fallen asleep at the station with a fifth of scotch." Stiles laughs a little. "You know, it’s funny, what happened was really bad, but it actually made us closer. He slowed down on the drinking, started spending more time with me. Talked to me about things."

Derek wants to say something, anything really, but he knows Stiles has been building to something. Stiles chews on his lip for a moment, his fingers tapping out a pulse on the wall behind him.

"He hasn’t really talked to me since-" Stiles waves a hand to his throat, "- _this_ happened. He hugged me, we cried, hugged some more, and then, I don’t know. It’s like we’re giving each other space when space is the last thing I-"

Stiles stops short and shakes his head, finally looking up at Derek.

"I don’t want him to stop talking to me again."

Stiles starts blinking again, holding back tears that Derek can see from his end of the room. Derek pushes off of the counter, walking over to the wall and leaning against next to Stiles. He takes a deep breath, thinking over his words carefully.

"Stiles, if there’s one thing I know about your father- if there was only one thing I could use to _define_ your father, it’d be how much he loves you.” Stiles turns to him, surprised, but Derek just nods. “And maybe he’s just waiting on you. You’re the one this happened to, Stiles. Your dad suffered because of it for a day or so, yeah, but you’re the one who’s going to have to-” Derek shakes his head and says what he wants to say anyway, “-you’re the one who has to _live_ with it. And you can,” he adds. “You can live with it. You’re strong enough.”

"Not strong enough to keep from opening up a werewolf on tap," Stiles mutters.

"It’s not something you should fight, Stiles. The longer you wait, the worse it will get. When you get hungry just go to Scott or come to me."

"And be a parasite?" Stiles scoffs.

"And _survive_. If not for yourself, then for your dad and for your friends,” Derek says. Stiles is quiet again for a bit after that before turning to look at him.

"You’ve been going to those seminars, haven’t you? The ones that tell you how to take control of your life with the power of positive thinking," he quips. Derek rolls his eyes and takes a swipe at him, but Stiles flails out of reach. "Hey, I’m not knocking it! It’s obviously been working for you!"

It’s a diversion, Derek knows, but he lets Stiles have it. He wouldn’t be Stiles if he didn’t pull shit like this, and the kid has already adopted so many habits in order to _stay_ like himself. The breathing, the tapping, the unnecessary sound; this is something that seems to have remained effortless. Why discourage it?

When Stiles leaves the loft, with a begrudged thanks as he slips out the door, Derek walks back to the sink to clean the mug. He turns it in his hands as he dries it, setting it aside for Stiles’ use only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antigone had less wordy monologues than this. Christ.
> 
> Actual for real Stilinski Family Feels next time, because we're over due for some Sheriff interaction. Also, if you guys are enjoying this series, please let me know in a comment. This doesn't have scheduled releases since it's a side project, so the more positive feedback I get for it, the more motivation I have to add to it.
> 
> (Did you know you can find me on tumblr at jettiebettie.tumblr.com? It's true.)


	4. How To Not Dress Like A Douchebag When You're Dead

The Sheriff hesitates at the top of the stairs.

Seems like that's all he's done lately, he thinks. Hesitating.

With a frustrated sigh to himself, he squares his shoulders and walks quietly to the bathroom door. Stiles seemed preoccupied when he came home from Scott's, sparing just a moment to let his dad know he was home before saying he was going to take a bath. But that was two hours ago, and the man is pretty sure his son is still in there. Maybe. It's been so hard to locate him by just by sound lately, ever since-

The Sheriff stares at the door and refuses to let himself go there. Instead, he raises a hand and knocks gently. Water that he could hear running is cut off with a squeaky turn of the taps.

"Hey, kiddo. You still in there?" he asks, holding his breath for some reason.

"Yeah, Dad," he hears Stiles immediately reply. The Sheriff sighs in relief.

"You alright? You've been in there a long time."

It's quiet on the other side of the door for a moment before the Sheriff hears the sound of water in the tub splashing a bit.

"I'm okay. You can come in if you want. I'm wearing my swim trunks," Stiles finally says. The Sheriff is confused for a moment, but he shakes it off and opens the door. His son is sitting in the tub, curled up in a way that the water is up to his chin and his knees are pull up. There's an impressive amount of steam coming up from the water, enough that the Sheriff dips a hand in experimentally before frowning.

"A little hot isn't it?" he asks. Stiles runs a hand through his wet hair to pull it back out of his eyes before shrugging. 

"A little. It's fine, though. I'm fine," he tells him with a strained smile on his face. The Sheriff sits on the rim of the tub, clasping his hands together between his knees.

"Sure about that? Never heard of someone taking a bath with their swim suit on," he says, looking Stiles in the eye. Stiles opens his mouth, as if about to contest that statement, before giving up and making a face.

"It's not a bath... exactly," Stiles admits. The Sheriff gives his son a look, the one that he always gives Stiles when he wants a direct answer. Stiles shifts in the water guiltily, dropping his eyes from his dad's and staring at the top of his knees. "I was cold," he finally says. The Sheriff blinks in confusion.

"It's over fifty degrees out," he says. It might not be excessively warm, but it wasn't even cold enough to wear a jacket out. In fact, the quick jog he took today with Romulus, the newest K-9 recruit, was enough to get him sweating with his circulation up and-

Oh.

The Sheriff shifts awkwardly on the side of the tub, wincing before he could stop it. Immediately Stiles sits up straighter, hands over the tub to grab a towel that was on the floor.

"Sorry for hogging the bathroom," he says quickly, words beginning to spill out to fill up his dad's silence. "Give me ten minutes and I'll get cleaned up and-"

"Stiles," the Sheriff interrupts firmly, reaching a hand out to keep Stiles from getting out. Stiles stills, watching him with regretful eyes before dropping the towel and slowly sinking back into the water. He stares at the agitated surface, seemingly unsure of what to do.

"Sorry," he says again, quietly this time. He blinks rabidly before looking back up to him. "Dad, I'm _really_ sorry."

"Hey, no," the Sheriff starts, placing a hand on Stiles' damp shoulder. He softens his expression and takes in his son's face; his skin is pale, almost sickly, but his eyes are as alive as they've ever been, full of misplaced guilt and apprehension. He always was so much like his mother.

_"I'm sorry, love. I'm so, so sorry."_

_"Claudia, you're sick. This isn't something you- You don't have to apologize for anything."_

_"I'm so sorry."_

The Sheriff shakes his head and lets his hand fall back to his lap.

"We haven't really talked about this have we?" he asks softly.

Stiles stares at him before shaking his head minutely. The Sheriff takes a deep breath before exhaling slowly, trying to find the right words to say. Something - _anything_ \- to make Stiles understand how he felt when he learned his son was still ali- still with him, that all encompassing relief and joy that seized him when he reached out held his son again. Surely, he thinks, there's some sentence, some combination of words that adequately explains to Stiles that there is nothing he could do or _be_ that would ever cause the man to turn away from him.

"I love you so much."

Stiles remains still for a moment, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for the inevitable _but_. Instead, the Sheriff just smiles at him fondly, and Stiles gives him a shaky one in return.

"Thanks, Dad," he says. The Sheriff nods, standing up.

"Take your time. When you're ready, come on downstairs, okay?" he says. He gets to the door before stopping and turning back. "You do remember that we have heating, right?" he asks. Stiles rolls his eyes.

"You do remember easily you get warm, _right_?" he shoots back. The Sheriff concedes his point.

"How about I pick you up an electric blanket after I get groceries?" he offers.

"Yeah," Stiles says, reaching for the towel again. "That'd be great, Dad."

-

"You can't wear sweaters year round, you know."

Lydia ignores the way Stiles looks down mournfully at his hoodie and steps awkwardly to the side to let her into his room.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. He goes to close his door, but jumps back in surprise when a hand suddenly stops it, pushing the door wider. He stares at Danny in confusion, who ignores him in favor of standing behind Lydia as she starts riffling through his closet.

"That is a lot of plaid," Danny mutters.

"We're just going to have to look past that," Lydia says, pulling out a few shirts. "Look for anything heavy, but without long-sleeves."

"Uh, guys? What the hell is happening?"

"If it comes down to it, we can just cut the sleeves off of some of his hoodies," Danny suggests, walking over to Stiles' dresser.

"Absolutely not. He'd look like one of those keg-standing idiot frat boys," Lydia says.

"You say that like it's not in his immediate future."

"I am literally right here!" Stiles says irritably, rushing over to close his closet doors. "You want to tell me why you're both trashing my clothes?"

"Only assholes wear long-sleeves in this weather, and that's all you've been wearing for three straight days," Danny says. Lydia is sure Stiles is about to tell Danny to fuck off but he stops, face turning contemplative.

"What about scarves? Would you agree that only assholes wear scarves in this weather, also?" he asks.

While Stiles is distracted with subtly insulting his friends, Lydia takes a moment to stop organizing Stiles overshirts by color and simply listen.

If he was occasionally loquacious and bombastic before, it's utterly impossible to ignore him now. The distinct, perfectly paced, phantom _bu-bump_ , _bu-bump_ and slow, sloshing of something thick that leaves a faint metallic scent in the air follow him around like a John Hughes soundtrack, announcing his presence before she even sees him. It's so ironically vivacious that she doesn't even need to scream or strum to hear it. It should be annoying.

It's the most comforting sound she's heard in a long time.

"I can't work with this," she finally says, derailing Stiles' interrogation of Danny. Turning toward him with a flip of her hair, she makes a show of taking in his current outfit. "Have you eaten lately?" she asks. Stiles immediately looks uncomfortable, throwing a glance to Danny who just rolls his eyes and shrugs.

"Last night," Stiles admits.

"Perfect. Then you should be able to join us on a little trip to the mall," she says, spinning on her heel to the door.

"I said I'd help raid his drawers, not that I'd go shopping with you two," Danny says, tossing a familiar blue and orange shirt back into Stiles dresser.

"Consider it community service," Lydia tells him, grabbing Stiles by the elbow and pulling him out of the room.

"Still here, you guys!"

-

Lydia holds up yet another shirt to Stiles chest in absolute concentration.

"Hmm. Nope. This one brings out the deadness of your skin."

" _Lydia_!" Stiles hisses out, frantically looking around the shop.

"What? It does. If you'd just let me teach you how to apply foundation, we wouldn't be having this problem," she tells him, putting the shirt back on the rack.

"I'm not wearing makeup."

"Then shut up and let me work."

"Well, stop broadcasting _this_ -" Stiles waves to himself, "-to the whole store!"

"No one is even paying attention to us," Lydia tells him. She hears Danny snort to the side of them, giving most of his attention to his phone and being intentionally unhelpful. "Now listen," she says as she tries another shirt. "If you insist on going back to school in your condition and you want to stay warm, we need to find something that can keep your core insulated. It's not like you can sit next to the window, not for long anyway." Just mentioning direct sunlight makes Stiles look queasy. "You can wear thermals under your jeans, but we have to get creative with your tops."

"Maybe I should just invest in a cape and a cravat," Stiles says petulantly, holding his arms out as Lydia piles options into them. "You don't have to do this, you know. I'm already the weird kid at school. It isn't like wearing hoodies all the time would shock anyone." With a look skywards, Danny puts away his phone and walks to the one of the racks, sifting through it before picking out a heavy red one before throwing it onto Stiles' head. "I thought we weren't doing bright colors," Stiles says, voice muffled under the fabric.

"It'll bring out what color you do have. Shut up and try it on so we can go."

"Thanks, Danny," Stiles deadpans. "I really appreciate your support in my time of need." Muttering under his breath, he takes the pile of clothes to the dressing room as Lydia and Danny wait outside.

"How long until he lets me take some powder to his face, do you think?" Lydia asks thoughtfully. Danny shrugs, pulling out his phone again.

"Honestly? Two weeks. Max."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this. Finals, man. With any luck, we'll delve into some of Stiles' new abilities next time.
> 
> (Did you know you can find me on tumblr at jettiebettie.tumblr.com and on twitter by the same handle? It's true.)


End file.
